


picture-perfect / top of the world

by Anonymous



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Masturbation, Not Meant To Be Erotica, One Shot, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, With A Twist, but not really, can you even call this smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The buzzing feeling in Hinata’s head doesn’t stop. It’s just getting louder as it rings like a bell on repeat, the metal clang-cling-clang sliding left, right, left, right like a concert around his ears.Hinata counts to three before giving up.-Some things are just left better unsaid.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41
Collections: Anonymous





	picture-perfect / top of the world

**Author's Note:**

> Check end notes for the big fat TW, but you'll get spoiled for whatever this fic will have in store for you. 
> 
> PLEASE do not read this if you're sensitive, easily scared, easily triggered, afraid of implied horror... stuff like that.
> 
> I would call this my first smut, but is this even smut anymore? I have used the word dick and its synonyms 0 times here, I'm not even kidding. It's more of a descriptive writing with underlying tones of NSFW, to be honest. This wasn't written with the intent to turn someone on. 
> 
> Anyway, here's the fic. It's... not my best work and it was finished at 12am. I'm too tired to re-proofread it (there will probably be a lot of sentence errors near the end), but I've already written it, so...I'm sorry, HinaKoma nation.

When Hinata closes his eyes, the beautiful smile on Komaeda’s lips is permanently burned into his retinas.

Hinata, holding a photo in his palms, looks at the still image of Komaeda lying beneath the filtered sunlight. His eyes are shut, wispy strands of his unruly hair framing his delicate face, curling around his neck like flowering grapevines. A soft expression finds itself home on his features as Komaeda holds his hands close to his chest, right where his heart should be.

No one’s near the vicinity right now- they’ve all gone to eat dinner specially made by Teruteru. Hinata’s sure they won’t mind his absence for a while.

With a heavy, heavy heart, Hinata leans on a table next to him and tries to calm his buzzing mind.

There is nothing he can do but look at Komaeda. Picture-perfect, posed like an angel. The background of the room he’s in is a beguilement of too-white curtains and too-pure sheets surrounded by chrysanthemums and carnations flowering without care.

Hinata looks away. He instead imagines Komaeda laughing beneath an island breeze, the land smelling of fragrant coconuts and salty seashores. Bright rays of light dances between them as Hinata squints his eyes, barely being able to see. All the while, Komaeda is spinning carefreely where he stands, breathing in so sharply it’s like he’s inhaling his last breath.

Another one- here he’s holding Komaeda gently, pressing his nose against those fluffy white curls, calmly murmuring praise and words of encouragement while holding a set of pale, skinny hands. Komaeda sinks backwards and into his embrace, melting right into Hinata’s arms like two candles conjoining into one.

(One candle smells of lavenders, the other a mismatched combo of everything at once. It’s overkill in Hinata’s eyes, because candles are only scented well when they’re not a blend of bitter tears.)

These are normal fantasies, an idle daydream encased in rose-colored lenses. But today these lenses are broken, and all that’s left is a golden glasses frame left bent on the ground, a ring of shattered glass in shades of coral scattered all around it.

Hinata feels a phantom slide of a mouth against his own, a wrangled gasp of his name frosting up the air. Cold hands curl around his neck, trailing lower and lower until it’s past his navel, slowly reaching down his waist and into what lies below.

The buzzing feeling in Hinata’s head doesn’t stop. It’s just getting louder as it rings like a bell on repeat, the metal clang-cling-clang sliding left, right, left, right like a concert around his ears.

Hinata counts to three before giving up.

He tries to spare Komaeda’s image some dignity, because he knows Komaeda’s probably disgusted with him. Hinata’s infatuation with the man is entirely one-sided, and he can still taste the sour feeling of rejection lying on the curve of his tongue.

So he thinks of sweeter things to contrast against Komaeda’s intense, fervent hatred against him. A small kiss on the lips. A light scrape of teeth against the nape of his neck, suckling bruises into a milk-white canvas lain out with the ruffled air of a bunched-up tablecloth.

The canvas, which is in the color of Komaeda's skin, is painted with prettier strokes in warmer colors. Red, like the blaze of a fire. (Red, like the heat of Komaeda’s repulsion.) Pink, like blossoms of morning glories, azaleas, hollyhocks, and roses. (Pink, like the glass of nail polish Komaeda owns that no one is allowed to touch. Who does it belong to? Hinata only knows of her appearance: blonde hair, azure eyes.)

The painter dips his brush lower, _deeper_ , and the canvas rattles, nearly falling off the easel it was so carefully placed upon.

“ _Stay_ ,” is what Hinata wants to whisper to the man in his mind. His real hands- anchored to his mortal body in the human realm- wanders to where it should be, and Hinata’s soundless whispers swell louder with desperation, hoping to sweep Komaeda up and into his world of make-believe.

“Stay.” Because Hinata doesn’t want to let go.

“Stay.” Because Hinata is not altruistic, because Hinata is forever selfish.

“Leave,” is the word that slips from Komaeda’s nonexistent mouth, but Hinata is deaf to what he says. Hinata’s not going to have him. Komaeda’s already left.

The slick feeling of his arousal and shame is there, worming into his gut. Komaeda’s illusionary fingers continue tugging at his heartstrings, laughing as he does so. Hinata picks up the pace, hoping he can run and launch himself at Komaeda, who’s strumming the harp embedded in Hinata's broken-up chest.

He shovels and buries the image of Komaeda, a timeless angel, far into his mind. His stare shoots holes through the angel's lean figure, and when Hinata reaches a hand out to touch the smooth surface, he can nearly feel the warmth of a human being pressed up against his side.

Hinata Hajime wants to go faster. Fast enough so he can forget about the cruel reality of life. Faster until he can go overboard with the rush of exhilaration flaring out like wings. And when the wings fade out while he’s touching the sky, he’ll feel the high of falling from the top of the world back down into the harsh joltings of AWAKE in capital letters.

The sky is fragmented, it is within reach. Hinata’s fantasy hands brush against snow, sand, clouds, and cotton. The snow is cold, like long-lost love. The sand is warm, but it reeks of blood. The rest, the curl of soft woolen puffs, are better memories to hold close to his chest, a better _dream_ Hinata wishes to remember.

Flying near the gate of angels, Hinata curls his fist for a final tug. He pulls down both worlds with him.

The fall is immeasurable.

There’s nothing to describe it.

The fall, as Hinata wants everything to be, is not a fall from grace, but it’s not a fall centered from good either. Morally gray. Morally ambiguous. Maybe even morally wrong.

The harp snaps, strings flying into the snow. Hinata’s wings burn, and they melt into the sand.

Icarus fell because of pride. If Hinata’s doing the same, is he only alive because of shame?

When the rush of euphoria ends and he’s no longer out of breath, the guilt catches on immediately.

Hinata places down the photo that was originally meant to be hung on the altar behind him. It’s a picture of Fuyuhiko and Komaeda near a park. The smell of lavender candles permeates the spotless room, and Hinata is feeling sick to the stomach.

Wipe away the evidence. The canvas should be completely clean. And when he’s done, Hinata shoots Komaeda’s rigid body one more glance. The rays of sunlight still illuminates his features, but they’re different somehow. More dark. More oppressive.

Hinata decidedly closes Komaeda’s casket with dead, empty eyes.

He leaves the harp strings back in the snow. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> TW: Implied necrophilia. Thanks lovely friend that I won't name for this depraved idea. Uh... feel free to say anything at me in the comments. I genuinely do not blame you.


End file.
